They become names Like the rims of baked-bean tins That have to be handled with care
They are a bunch of flowers Tied to a lamppost Or a bench with words carved in
They are a Wikipedia page Or a library shelf Or a nothing A nobody
They swell into memories Wilted and swimming like wax They seem to be stood there When the sunlight blusters Over dust Because dust is just dead cells That we all inhale Exhale Like we’ll choke them back into existence
They reside in half-empty Boxes of tissues Cigarette packets The bubbles in lemonade
They become a mantelpiece of photographs And sympathy cards Broken toys Empty T-shirts that you’ll try to turn into puppets Sat in their wardrobe
They fall into certain songs Certain car journeys Occasionally they borrow your tongue To continue voicing certain phrases Certain people Certain places Certain rooms Certain tastes Certain seasons Certain sunsets
Or maybe they just toss and turn Beneath the church built of handkerchiefs Like commuters coffined into underground trains Wondering whether they can still believe In tunnels And golden lights.